Pied took a deep, steadying breath, picturing Arling's reaction once she found out what Kellen had done. «With any Elves–in–training, we expose them gradually to the dangers of war. We don't just throw them out on the battlefield—not unless we are desperate. We bring them along slowly. 1 think that is what is needed with Kiris and Wencling. Let them come on a few overflights first, ones in which combat is not a given.»
Kellen Elessedil took a long moment to study him, as if seeing something he hadn't seen before, something he was not altogether pleased about. Then he said, softly, «I will think about it, cousin.»
He motioned for Pied to go out, an odd gesture Pied had not seen before. But this was not the time for speculation. He departed quickly, happy to escape before Kellen could think of some further madness. Because he would, Pied knew. He was in that place where ideas came and went like silverfish, and each looked better than the one before, but never was.
Outside the tent, Drumundoon fell into step beside him, his tall form bent close as he said, «Did he listen to you?»
Pied nodded. «He listened. Then he ignored me. If I don't give him fresh reasons to call it off, the attack takes place at dusk. Worse, he intends to take his sons along for the ride.»
Drumundoon exhaled sharply. «Has he lost his mind?»
«Arling would think so. I wish she were here to speak with him. She might have better luck than I.»
Drumundoon shook his head. «I doubt it. He doesn't listen to her, either. Although he might, where those boys are concerned. What matters is that she left them in your charge. Yours, specifically. I was there when she did so. I heard the way she spoke to you. If anything happens to her sons, she will have your head.»
Pied glanced at him.Because I loved her once. Because I think she loved me, as well You left that part out, Drum.
He stalked off into the midday heat and tried not to think about it.
Nineteen
By late afternoon, Acrolace and Parn had still not returned. It worried Pied, but he had learned long ago to live with the guilt associated with sending his Home Guard to spy on an enemy. It was obvious in any case that Acrolace and Parn were not going to return in time to be of any help in dissuading Kellen Elessedil from his ill– advised foray. The attack on the Federation fleet was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not, and he was just going to have to make the best of it. That was sometimes a soldier's lot, even if you were Captain of the Home Guard and cousin to the King.
Dressed in his battle gear, his weapons strapped about him once more, he called Drumundoon to his tent, and with the sun creeping toward the horizon through a screen of thin clouds and the daylight becoming diffuse and weak, they set out for the airship field.
«No word of any sort, Drum?»
The aide shook his head. «Nothing. I hear that the Federation is massing soldiers along its lines, looking to shore up the weaknesses brought about by the departure of the Rovers. That's the King's reading of the situation, at least. It reinforces what he already believes, which makes it attractive. It supports the decision he favors. Word is, he sees this war over and done within a week.»
«Celebrating his victory before he's even engaged his enemy. How very like him.» Pied shook his head. «Something is going on that we don't know about. I can feel it in my bones. This attack is a mistake. I have to find a way to stop it.»
Drumundoon pursed his lips. «I don't know this for a fact, but I am given to understand that the King hasn't advised our allies as yet of his plans.»
Pied came to an abrupt halt, staring at him. «What?»
«He intends to inform them just before he sets out, I'm told. That way, they can't stop him.» His aide cocked an eyebrow at him. «He doesn't want to risk anything or anyone getting in his way. He knows he isn't commander of the Free–born army, that he isn't even commander of the airship fleet. But he is King of the Elves, and the Elves make up the greater part of the airship command, so in his mind, that's sufficient justification for striking out on his own.»
Drumundoon glanced around warily, making sure no one else was listening. «Captain, he doesn't intend to ask for support from any quarter in this business. He intends this victory to belong solely to the Elves. Dwarves, Trolls, and Bordermen can share in it afterwards, once it has been realized, but ultimately it is the Elves who will bring it about. That's what they say he's decided.»
Pied fumed. How had he not seen that coming? For more than two months, Kellen Elessedil had camped on the Prekkendorran with his Elven Hunters, an inspiring presence and little more on the face of things. But Kellen Elessedil was nothing if not driven. You could see it in his impatience with the failure of the Free–born army to effect any noticeable change in the status quo. Always anxious to be in the thick of things, always looking to see how matters so long stalemated might be resolved, the King was pressing his fellow commanders at every opportunity. The war was more than thirty years old, and the Elves were sick to death of it. The King saw it as his moral imperative to bring it to a conclusion, and no one could fault him for his commitment to do so. What was wrong with his approach was his insistence on doing it his way, on finding a solution that did not necessarily involve his Free–born allies. What was mistaken in his thinking was that the solution existed in simple terms, — that somehow the answer lay in a single brilliant military stroke, and that the finding of that answer had been left up to him.
Well, it was too late to try to explain it to him now, even supposing he would be willing to listen, which Pied was quite sure he would not.
He started walking again, more purposefully, a mix of irritation and concern flooding through him. King or not, Kellen Elessedil was overstepping his bounds, and it would come back to haunt them all. Drumundoon matched his strides to those of his Captain and kept his peace while he did so. Neither of them spoke. There had been enough talk already.
Pied surveyed the camp as they passed through it, taking careful note of what he saw. This section was mostly Elven those farther on, east of where they walked, comprised Bordermen from the larger cities of Callahorn as well as Dwarves and Trolls, most of the latter mercenaries. The nominal leader of the army was an aged, though highly respected, Southlander named Droshen, but the real leader, the man who commanded the soldiers on the battlefield, was a Dwarf called Vaden Wick, a veteran of countless campaigns against the Gnome tribes before coming to the Prekkendorran. Just now, coordination of the various allied forces was loose, a condition brought about by the near inactivity of the armies on either side of the conflict over the past few years, an erosion of structure and discipline through constant changes in both ranks and command. The third generation of allies was fighting the war, and the toll was noticeable. It was assumed by most that the war would end only when the leaders finally grew so tired of it that they called it off by mutual agreement. No one thought it could be won on the battlefield. Not after so long. Not after so many failed attempts.
Except, of course, for a few who thought like Kellen Elessedil. Pied was disconcerted by what he saw that evening. The obvious lack of discipline was worrisome. The looks on the faces of the men and women as they sat around their fires, playing games of chance and drinking ale, were more worrisome still. Disinterest and resignation were mirrored in those faces. That spoke to him clearly: No one believed in the war anymore. It said that everyone was sick of the fighting and dying. It said that keeping your head down and your mouth shut was all that would get you through. These men and women were waiting things out. They were waiting to go home.
He glanced around. No one drilled or trained. No one sharpened weapons or tightened straps on armor. There were Elven Hunters manning the walls at the front and there was a watch in place, — that was enough. If something more was needed, it was somebody else's problem.
It was worse elsewhere, in the other armies, where discipline was even less in evidence. It wasn't that Bordermen, Dwarves, and Trolls weren't brave and capable, — it was that they had no reason to think those attributes would be tested. The Federation army had squatted in place for almost two years without doing anything beyond sending out scouts and attempting an occasional foray into the Free–born lines. They were as indolent and disinterested in fighting as their enemies were. The mobilization of fresh forces along the Federation front in the wake of the departure of the Rover airships did not suggest to the Elves and their allies that their enemy's attitude
